Liberty
by Hexapuma
Summary: Countless seasons have passed since Redwall Abbey's founding, but now a fragment of their history rises to threaten them. An imperialistic army has swept aside Salamandastron, but four rebellious youths may make holding the Abbey a painful proposition.
1. Prologue

**_The General's Lament_**

**General Norman Hastings, Second Southsward Expeditionary Force (attributed)**

**Long ago,**

**I swore**

**An oath**

**to make war**

**And to fight**

**And to guide**

**With my might**

**And my mind.**

**And a shocking day it was**

**When I glanced down at my paws,**

**And saw them covered in the blood of innocents.**

**That day, I swore**

**Another oath unto myself,**

**Never again to take the life of anybeast.**

**This new oath**

**Never saved**

**Any creature**

**Any pain.**

**They always just insisted on bloodshed.**

**Now I chase after these**

**Four wretched thieves**

**And the men under my lead all find it grand**

**We hunt now**

**For these "foes"**

**Who are too young**

**Such pain to know…**

**Any God, If you are there,**

**Please answer this one prayer,**

**That I make my choice without regret.**

**Oh, that my homeland ne'er was ruled by monsters,**

**And that the King and I had never, ever met.**

**Prologue**

"And you can take your 'surrender demands,' turn right at the corner, and go on straight to hell! And take this…this _rabble_ with you." Field Marshal Edgar Stryker of the Long Patrol finished his rant and stared down at the messenger from the so-called "Southsward Expeditionary Force." The liaison scurried off to his general, somebeast named Norman Hastings. _All in all_, the old hare thought, _a nice start to the day. It's been a while since I got to kill something._

Norman Hastings was an awe-inspiring figure, a giant in fluidly curving sapphire steel plates with a jade-bordered sea-blue cape billowing out around him with the wind. He turned to his commanders, speaking with a rich tenor. "I had hoped to secure Salamandastron as a bastion without bloodshed, but the hares seem intent on wiping themselves out."

A fox standing beside him in slightly less elaborate crimson armor and golden cape spoke up. "We've planned for this ever since we crossed the desert, General. The men know what to do."

"I know that, Colonel Parte. Just as I know that peace was a forlorn hope to begin with. But that didn't stop me from wanting it."

"Sah, with all due respect, you should stop philosophizing and get on with it, wot. The men are anxious to begin, and I'm worried about how long we can restrain the…newer additions." The newest speaker was a hare himself, a brown-furred creature with charcoal-smudged leather armor and a smoke-blackened knife at his side.

"Good advice, Colonel Naples," Hastings acknowledged. Then he breathed in deeply and sighed. "All right, I'm ready. Have the auxiliaries fall out into a screen and signal the general advance. Take your infiltrators in as soon as the first Patrol charge hits home."

"Yessah!" Naples acknowledged.

"Yes, Sir!" Parte signaled his agreement with a flick of the tail under his luxurious cape.

"And Parte, Naples…ensure that everyone knows that any hare who lays down their arms, or does not bear them, is to be spared. No exceptions. And give our people ample warning…you know my policy on warning and punishment, of course."

"Yessah!" Naples agreed again.

"Consider it done, milord."

"Good. Very well. Runners! Musicians! To me! Sound the advance!"

And thus the great siege of Salamandastron began.

Sergeant-Major Gatling spurred his platoons into action. Veteran hare lancers pounded along the sandy shoreline, long barbs tilted towards the slow-moving mass of Hastings's army. Their targets fanned out into a great line, two and a half score across and five deep, with a second block well behind them. Their armor glinted sullenly in the morning light, as did the massive shields raised by the first rank and the barbs on the unusually long spears of the others. Less well-outfitted mobs deployed-if such a word could be used to describe so undisciplined an action-to screen the flanks of the core of armored regulars. Gatling winced despite the evident discord of the screening elements, for several detachments of Runners had been directed to strike the inland flank of the invading army. Now, though, they would be unable to strike home, leaving Gatling and his seventy-five-strong charge to strike home unsupported. His wince became a vicious grin. _Just the way I like it…_

A few of the greener bucks began looking around nervously, pace slackening, as the slowly-marching line of armored foebeasts hove closer. "Keep it together, laddies," Gatling urged. "Hit them hard, hit them fast, and you'll be back in the mountain by noon!" A seasoned campaigner himself, he was able to maintain his gallop with ease even while speaking.

"Those are some awfully long rat-stickers out there, eh, Sarge?" his old comrade Lancer Carabin pointed out.

"Aye, but it shouldn't make a difference," Gatling replied, consciously keeping his voice raised for the benefit of the others. "We'll find out how well they fight right…about…now!"

The hares' lances were almost in contact with the shield wall when a drumbeat sounded and the fifth rank of their foes leveled their massive polearms. It was a tactic the hares had never seen before, and their charge stalled as lances bounced off of impossibly strong armor or lancers ran themselves through on the sudden fence of barbed points. And as the Long Patrol's charge fragmented, the other ranks rippled their weapons out in time with musical commands, ever enlarging the nigh-impenetrable thicket. Gatling was among the few who even left a mark on the line, driving his lance home through the visor of a shieldbearer and letting it fall in favor of his long, curving sword. This he swiped at one of the spearmen behind his first victim. His foe's armor turned the first blow, but not the second, and the sharp-eared head of a squirrel lay at the hare's paws. He felt a momentary sense of surprise at this, being completely unused to attacks by "civilized" creatures, but quickly shunted that aside in favor of the necessity of battling for his life.

It was a battle he lost. Despite the hole he had dug in the fence of speartips and the aid of comrades who had poured through it behind him, some of the polearms swung around, stabbing, stabbing… Carabin let out a roar as his comrade fell, charging through, determined to avenge Gatling's death. But not everyone was as mad, and not everyone could stand. The glorious charge of the Long Patrol, the charge that had splintered so many armies before this, now broke, scattered survivors abandoning weapons and pelting towards the relative safety of their mountain stronghold. But their hearts sank within them as they saw the "screening elements" they had assumed were simply guarding the flank now curling in behind them, walling off their escape. The Patrollers fought desperately, striving to break through and save themselves, but it was not to be. Seventy-five hares had sallied forth, not half a score lived to surrender.

Captain Mauser struggled to keep a level head. His veteran sergeants, despite shaken, were moving through the assembled Patrollers just within the main gate. Some hares they coaxed or cajoled into place, others they threatened, and some they even repositioned through main force. But try as he might, Mauser could not see any real way to triumph. The armor and shields of the heavy infantry had proven damnably effective at turning aside weapons, although at least someone had managed a few kills. Longbow archers in the upper caverns had claimed several more, but nowhere near the numbers to be expected from such powerful weapons. And even the bows had ceased their volleys as startlingly precise and accurate shafts struck back through the arrow slits.

The captain began thinking aloud. "Those spears won't fit in the caves, and there are enough openings to hit them from every flank imaginable. We know these tunnels well enough that we should have the advantage. Everyone!" he called to the forces under his command. "Pull back. Ambush them from the tunnels as they advance!"

Only as he entered one of the aforementioned tunnels did he realize how badly he had failed his soldiers. The silence of the archers above had not been merely due to fear…no, indeed. Somehow, the enemy army had scaled the sheer cliffs of the mountainside, sneaking into the caverns and flanking the gatekeepers just as they had meant to flank the legions without. The captain permitted himself a grim chuckle of irony that took the black-clad ferrets before him by surprise. Drawing his rapier, he began his grim dance, listening to the panicked screams echoing through the mountain halls as the invader's impossible trap was sprung.

The Badger Lord Naranto watched as his forces were overrun and the invading army pushed into the mountain keep. "Why can't anyone ever accept peace?" he asked his orderly. "Why do we insist upon war?"

"Well, m'lord, I think it's the way we've been raised. I heard it wasn't always like this, but things have just fallen down, wot? We're bred to fight, and we won't accept anything else." This observation came from Chester, the young orderly who aided the ancient badger in all that he did.

"Perhaps you're right, lad." Naranto sighed and forced himself up. "I need to go greet our guests. Fetch my armor, will you?" As Chester scurried off to bring the plates and warhammer favored by Naranto, the elderly lord pushed himself up despite his protesting muscles. "Ah, well. I'd better get ready, then. Time to give this scum a _real_ Long Patrol welcome!"

Field Marshal Stryker was completely panicked. Out of the nearly fifteen score Long Patrol hares who had been deployed, barely two dozen survived. General Hastings strode over to the quivering hare. "Convinced yet, Field Marshal?"

"Convinced? _Convinced?_ Was there really any need for this? You, sirrah, are nothing more than a common murderer!" Stryker gained confidence as his rant continued. "You deserve a sound thrashing, and I would just _love_ to be the one to provide it, wot! Make your peace with whatever deity will still take you." The hare officer readied his needle-sharp lance. Despite his advanced years, he was still lethally fast and had the weapon out in barely a second.

Hastings swung his sword around to point at the field marshal, and then turned it so the edge faced the ceiling. "My men will not interfere. At your ready."

The Field Marshal possessed blinding speed. Hastings's, however, was _invisible_. Before Stryker could even make one jab with his lance, his quarters were sliding away from each other. No one had even seen Hastings move. "Rest in peace, you poor old fool."

Sergeant Barrett, one of the few resisting survivors, organized the fourteen Patrollers he had gathered in the vast kitchen cavern, hoping for some miracle that could save them from the unstoppable legions now pouring through their mountain fortress. Young Chester pattered down the stairs, panting for breath. "What is it, youngster? Has something happened to His Nibs?" demanded Corporal Garand.

"No, sah. Naranto's on his way down right this bloomin' minute. Let me sit a moment and-gah!"

A mousy silhouette appeared in the doorway, hefting a strange apparatus. An arrow shot from it, seemingly without being drawn back. Chester died quickly after the bolt punched trough his throat. The mouse only adjusted his aim with the strange bow, but it continued to spit shot after shot. Private Remington went next, then the eager Recruit Colt. At that moment, inspiration struck. Barrett pointed out "Of course! This is a kitchen. There's oil all throughout the place! Try to pour it in the entrances, then light it with something."

"But what about 'Is Nibs, sah?" complained Corporal Arkebus.

"He could bloody well _crawl_ through a firewall if he had to! Now move! And _stay_ moving; don't let that sniper get another one of us!"

Momentarily, the fire was lit. Seconds after that, the sniper came clattering down the stairwell at the kitchen entrance to land in a heap in the center of the blazing puddle. Naranto bounded down to land perfectly beyond the inferno. "Neat trick, Sergeant."

"Thank y' sah." replied Barrett. "Sorry Chester bought it before I thought it up."

"He was a good lad. He would have made a fine Patroller if…"

The weary creatures shared a moment of silence.

"Now, I know a way out of here," the badger rumbled. "But first…."

Sergeant Barrett smiled viciously as Naranto outlined his plan

Within ten minuets, the hares had filed out. A small detachment of Hasting's soldiers approached the kitchen, just in time to witness the entire stock of oil go up in the first eruption since the mountain's ancient molten core had died. Hastings felt the tremors from his _ad hoc_ command post three floors up. Moments later, the sole survivor came up, badly singed. Hastings ordered him off to the medics, and then asked his mouse subaltern the results of the engagement.

" Sir!" the young soldier squeaked. "Twelve of ours dead from the fire, sir! Seven dead during tunnel combat, eighteen from the field engagement, sir! Nineteen wounded altogether, sixteen of those walking, sir! As far as we know, one-hundred percent casualties among the fighting hares, sir! Noncombatants and leverets were spared as you ordered and are being confined in the barracks chambers, sir! No sign of the Badger Lord, but we think he was in the caverns for that explosion. Sir!"

"Thus ends their Long Patrol," Hastings said, shaking his head sadly.


	2. Chapter One

I

Deep in the dense, untamed Mossflower Woods, at the hub of what had once been a prosperous trade route, massive red sandstone walls rose above the canopies of all but the mightiest forest giants. This citadel of civilization was the ancient, legendary Redwall Abbey, home to many woodlanders seeking shelter or relative peace. The monastery had its share of assailants, drawn by myths of fabulous wealth or by sheer bloodlust, but none could stand long before the veteran fighters who frequented the abbey. Secure in this mighty enclosure, then, young creatures were able to grow, learn, and play safely while their elders relaxed and enjoyed their twilight seasons. Such was the idyllic life in Redwall Abbey, although it was occasionally shattered by commotion within. For example….

"Damn it, Father, I want those ruffians stopped! If they steal any more from the kitchens, we'll never get our meals prepared." This was the middle-aged Friar Sands, chief cook and head of most menial work in the abbey.

"Well, Norrah and her little band always return the items, don't they?" the ancient silver mouse Father Abbot Davien Thune inquired somewhat playfully of his bellicose companion.

"Yes, but-but that's beside the point!" sputtered Sands. "They know no discipline! And it disrupts our schedule, and…"

"Calm yourself, Friar. Yes, I understand the issue. But, since you direct the activities of most of the abbeybeasts, why don't you…talk some of them into acting as guards? Hmm? Give the little rascals more of a challenge, and maybe keep your goods safer."

"I can't believe you, Father! It sounds like you _support_ their scandalous behavior!"

At this Abbot Thune grew serious. "I _do_ support our children learning to support themselves. The times when we could focus on honor and propriety are _long_ gone. Now, it is all we can do to survive. Walk with me a little, Brother Sands, and I will remind you of why."

The pair strolled into the orchards, with an untidy cluster of trees justly famous for both produce and beauty. The Abbot sighed, "Ah, just look at our wonderful home. According to the scrolls of ancient recorders, it has been this way for thousands of seasons, with little change. However, those same scrolls let those who hunger for knowledge see that only the inside of these walls has been preserved. The woods were once safe places for our youths to wander, fighters in imagination only. Back then, there was never any need for an army, and the shrews, squirrels, and otters were all congenial and progressive-minded in their dealings. Now, though, everything is sealed off. We only receive irregular visits from those not in our order, more often than not raids, and everything seems to be simply the survival of the most violent. We are well-protected, but rely on others to get through concentrated attacks. The squirrels and otters are isolationist, with the exception of Tamme's holt, and the Guosim shrews were wiped out when they could not decide on what to do about the barbarian hordes…until the decision was taken out of their paws."

"Yes, Abbot, I know that. In fact, the only known shrews still alive are here at the abbey. But what-"

"Patience, Friar. Let us keep walking."

They now reached the Abbey Pond, more of a small lake than anything else, and sat to cool their paws in the shallows. Passing mice, hedgehogs, and moles stopped to pay their respects to the oldest and wisest among them. The Abbot continued, "Also, of all the scholars who I know or have read of, _none_ were able to find why this Abbey existed or what our order was created to worship. We are monks, I am an Abbot, and yet we have nothing to follow but the way of survival. There some ancient myths of a great sword, and a great hero who used it in defense of this place as its founders hurried to place it before the invaders came, but this sword, if it ever existed, has been lost for ages. A pity, really. If it was blessed by _anything_, it could be of some assistance."

"But I fail to see what any of this history has to do with Norrah's actions." Friar Sands was more confused than hostile now, and the Abbot concealed a triumphant smile at seeing his friend actually learn something.

"Norrah and Barlom and their other few friends are teaching themselves how to survive in the cutthroat world that this has become. If you cannot stop them, well, that simply means that they are more likely to last than you. Now, my friend, let us simply relax here in the sun for a time. We are no longer young, you know."

Just then, the objects of their original argument came running by. Aran, the intelligent (and, unusually for her species, intelligible) molemaid, came up, and cleared her throat nervously.

"Urm, Father Abbot, uh, Friar, we, uh, have something to, err, let you know…" She trailed off miserably.

"Don't worry, my children," Abbot Thune said kindly. "We've already learned of your latest adventure, and will not take any punitive action against you." His words held a note of warning for Friar Sands. "However, your next run won't be so easy. The Friar and I will be certain to make it a hard as possible. Now, put the things back, and run along and play." The four friends wandered off, chatting amicably. The Abbot closed his eyes. "Young ones like those are the future of this abbey. I just wish it wasn't such a bleak one. They deserve better."

The sun shone down warmly upon the ancient sandstone spires of Redwall Abbey.

Norrah and her friends chattered excitedly about their latest adventure. Barlom, a young mouse and Norrah's closest companion, was the most talkative of the small group.

"Did you see the look on the Friar's face when the Abbot told him to play along with us?" he said through peals of laughter. "I can't believe that Father Davian Thune is actually _supporting _us!"

"We all heard him, Barlom," said Norrah, a note of mild reproof in her voice and her face remarkably straight. Amazingly, she even managed to quiet her vociferous companion…if only for a moment.

After that, he started up again. "Aran, I would have thought you would have been a little more…urm…_forceful_ back there with Sands and the Abbot. I mean, with you bucking for Recorder and all…"

"Barlom, if you're _quite_ through?" Norrah actually seemed to be genuinely upset, until a huge smile bisected her face. The whole group dissolved into laughter. Passing abbeymice looked askance at the four youths disturbing the tranquility of the Abbey, and hurried away from the four in hopes of finding peace. Finally the gales subsided.

"All right now, we need to get these here crops back into the larder, or Friar Sands will have us locked in it." This was Arnol the hedgehog, the most conscientious of Norrah's band.

"You're right, of course. Levity over, let's go." Aran held out her large paws. "I'll take those off of your paws now, Norrah. You look tired."

"You big liar." Norrah sighed and smiled wryly to take the sting out of her remark. "Thanks, though."

"Don't mention it, Norrah. You and Barlom did all the work of getting these out; Arnol can at least put them back for you."

Arnol looked at her in mock surprise, seemingly trying to convince himself he had not heard what she had just said.

"Come on, Arnol, take your turn. I can't hold these much longer!"

"Whatever happened to 'I'll carry these for you'?" he asked suspiciously.

The four friends continued into the abbey proper as the sun set behind the west walltops.


End file.
